


Wrack and Ruin

by oneinspats



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, 19th century America - Fandom, Napoleonic Era RPF, Real Person Fiction, Regency England - Fandom
Genre: Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Cryptids, Folklore, Gen, Magic, jersey devil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:39:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11862051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/pseuds/oneinspats
Summary: A letter from Joseph Bonaparte relating to the oft' cited and mysterious Jersey Devil brings Napoleon and an always less-than-amused Wellesley to New Jersey.Written for an Anon on Tumblr and originally posted there. This version is a wee bit tidied up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Joseph Bonaparte did run into something he described as being the Jersey Devil in 1820. I have moved the dates around a little bit to make it coincide with the Woodford stuff a little more. But it's really not too relevant aside from the birthdates of Nicholas Biddle's children which I am sure you are all very concerned about.

Getting to America wasn't the difficult bit. Which is, perhaps, the most shocking part to both parties involved. That it had taken so little to catapult them across the Atlantic. It had begun with Napoleon, sometime emperor of France, using his brother’s letter to harass Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington. Napoleon’s brother Joseph had written him on a matter pertaining to something or other in the Americas but what had caught Napoleon's eye was the second page which detailed  a most strange account of a supernatural nature. Upon reviewing it he had come to the conclusion that it was a matter of some importance and that it should be attended to by him in his  _ retirement  _ and, if absolutely necessary, other members of the British government.

'I have to go,' Napoleon had declared to the currently present member of the British government. 

'Go where?'

'To Bordentown in New Jersey,' only he had pronounced it with Italian vowels. Arthur had made a face as he worked out the English in his head. Oh yes, his expression had seemed to say, the Americas. Full of  _ Americans _ .

'Why?'

Napoleon had then unfurled the letter and placed it before Arthur. Joseph lacked the commanding nature of his brother and instead wrote with gentleness. His letter took them along with him into the Pine Barrens. That uncanny valley. He traced the event and provided a brief description of a creature he had never seen before. Arthur had snapped the letter away from Napoleon's dancing fingers.

'Ridiculous!'

'No.' Napoleon had been grave. 'My brother is many things but he is not a man for flights of fancy.'

'This is a farfetched excuse to take you away from England.'

'You can come too.' 

Arthur had faltered, fatal mistake, and before the Duke could regain command of the situation he and, to his confusion and annoyance, Napoleon were on a government mandated trip to ensure that the 'dratted Americans' did not end up with something that would give them an undo advantage. 

'A flying creature!' The Prime Minister, Lord Liverpool, had exclaimed. 'Imagine 1812 but poor Brock facing a flying creature!'

Arthur had shrugged, 'he'd probably have shot it first then asked questions. Anyway, he didn't last much longer than 1812 so I doubt it’d have mattered much to him personally. To the point, why is Bonaparte coming? Last year you were so sure he was going to skip back to France and I thought we were all still angry about him managing to land permanent exile in England instead of some other daft island.'

'Indeed, but he has not and I believe Mr. Joseph Bonaparte might be more amenable to helping us if his dear, beloved little brother were along for the ride if you take my meaning, your grace.'

And he had. And, with a lack of grace for his grace, he had consented to this goose-chase with a far too enthusiastic one-time-emperor of France.

 

/ /

 

Joseph looks like Napoleon. Or, perhaps, it is Napoleon who looks like Joseph. Only a slight difference in height that is in Joseph's favour and otherwise it is the same round face, pleasant smile, deep-set eyes. Joseph's calmness is in his movements. He is gentle in all the ways his younger brother is not. 

'I have heard much about you,' Joseph says as he leads them out back to the garden. 'I have an ice-machine, Napoleone. I must show it you.' He turns to Arthur, 'the reviews are generally positive.'

'About me or the ice-machine?' 

'Both.'

The brothers coo over the mechanism as one of Joseph's servants endeavours to make ice. Napoleon takes up a glinting chunk and holds to the sun. Light refracts against his face as a bit of water drips over his fingers and soaks into the cuff of his frock. Dark blue turns black. With a sly smile towards Joseph Napoleon whips around and chucks the ice towards Arthur. 

'Got you,' he shouts gleefully.

'You did not!' Arthur is indignant. Other members of Joseph's unofficial court of his Bordentown estate are watching them with abject fascination. Titters, whispers, laughs. He is not a carnival animal. Napoleon is all smiles. 

'I did indeed, sir.' 

Arthur adjusts his coat and waistcoat and brushes absently at his arms. 'You did not,' he says quietly. Napoleon is evidently unconvinced.

'Try something else,' Joseph says once another batch of ice has been made. 'Perhaps milk? Or coffee once it has cooled down.'

Morning coffee is produced and the servant makes an attempt at freezing it but there is limited success. After a few more liquids are attempted they repair inside for Joseph has decided that it is time to discuss the great matter at hand.

 

/ /

 

'It has been put about what I saw,' Joseph explains. 'So I am afraid you are not the first to come searching the woods. We looked directly after I sent the letter and again a few days after that. There were no signs. Do you know the story?'

Neither men do and Joseph pours them drinks as he shares the versions he has picked up of this so-called Jersey Devil.

'Child of a witch, child of the devil, or a thirteenth child of a woman called Mrs. Leeds. Local legend says that the Jersey Devil will prey upon cattle and poultry during the coldest winters. Farmers wake and find hoof-prints upon rooftops and in barnyards but with no trail in or out. As if it landed out of the sky.’

'But brother, what happened to you?' Napoleon asks. 'All mysterious creatures appear as if by magic and eat cattle or kill cattle or put elf shot in cattle. That is uninteresting.'

'I was hunting alone and while I was out in the woods of the estate I noticed some peculiar tracks upon the ground. They were uneven with the left larger than the right and shaped like horse or donkey hooves. No shoes, though. The oddest part is that it looked as if the creature walked on two legs. 

As I was inspecting the prints I heard a hissing noise behind me. A quiet exhale between teeth. Turning around I found myself facing a tall, winged creature. Its eyes were a reddish-yellow and its head that of a horse. Legs were bent backwards at the knees, the feet I didn't see but I can only assume them to be the hooves that made the marks. We neither of us moved for a long moment, me or the creature, then it curled its lips back, hissed between misshapen teeth and flew off.'

The study is quiet. There is gentle spring sun pouring in through beautifully etched glass warming the desk and the drinks upon it. Arthur is thinking through how this creature could, at all, pose a threat to British military endeavours but he admits that without seeing it there is little to go off.

To clarify a few points Arthur asks how tall it appeared. Joseph stands and measures about a head above himself and says this was the top of the head. The wings arched above that further still. And how many are there? Only the one to Joseph's knowledge.

'It is a singular beast,' Joseph says. 'I had hoped to find it again and capture it. It would be a great discovery for natural science.'

'And a fine thing to have shot,' Napoleon adds. 'Not many can say they have killed a creature of folklore.'

Joseph heartily agrees adding, 'I take it you will want to set about looking for it immediately.' 

'As soon as possible,' Arthur says. Napoleon, he can tell, is enjoying himself. Best to have done with the creature then load the contrary emperor back on a boat to England. 'If that is agreeable. We are here unofficially, as you know, and so time is of the essence before the President or some such will desire to have dinner with me.' 

'He's been a foul mood,' Napoleon explains in a stage whisper. 'Ever since he was made a cabinet minister. Before then he was such a charming fellow.'

Joseph grins. They are both grinning. They are both grinning and looking at Arthur. It is cat-like. Arthur grimaces. He makes a mental note to himself, Never let either occupy the same place in exile. It will run the world to wrack and ruin.

 

/ /

 

Joseph, being a man of pleasure and decadence, has them put up in the finest rooms his estate, Point Breeze, has to offer. Napoleon leans against a bed banister and eyes Joseph as he points out all the niceties. 

'How have you been, brother?' He asks.

Joseph stands beside the curtains. They are drawn. A deep red, gold embroidery. Goddesses with eyes picked out in emerald along the edges. His thumb rubs circles into the fabric.

'I am well, Nabulio.'

'Are you?'

'If you were to use my name which would it be?'

Napoleon blinks. Taken aback. He stutters out, 'Joseph' and Joseph nods in deep acceptance.

'You were Giuseppe to me when we were eight, nine. You have been Joseph to me for over forty years. Giuseppe is a memory. Joseph is the brother I love.'

Joseph leans his head to the side. He appears to wish to speak but cannot find the words. Napoleon adds, 'I am still Bonaparte.'

'See, this is the struggle. You are so many things. How can one person contain so many multitudes? Forgive me, I am over tired. It has been a long day. I had not ever expected -' He turns away with a sharp, jagged motion. A glass-cut motion. Shards on the floor motion. Napoleon watches. Wishes to say something but cannot. There had been a time when he would have gone to him and hugged him and Joseph would have been pleased but his brother appears to want separation for the moment.

'You had not expected for us to meet again?' 

Joseph nods.

'Except in the Elysian Fields where you would get your brother back.'

A rolling shrug.

'Well,' Napoleon sighs. 

'Well,' Joseph echoes.

'You know my views on that.' 

'I do.'

'You called me Napoleone in that letter. In all letters around my birthday.'

'You never said anything about it. I thought you didn't mind.'

Napoleon thinks for a moment then says, 'I didn't. I don't. What is a few extra letters? The British tabloids still spell Bonaparte with a 'u' as if to maintain even that semblance of control over me. Us. Our family.'

'You, primarily.'

'Yes, me, primarily.'

Joseph reaches out and Napoleon walks over and into the one-armed hug. He leans his head against Joseph's shoulder. It brings back striking memories of childhood. Dodging lessons with their uncle. Running about with stockings down at their ankles. Shrieking through narrow streets and chasing after rivals. We had a good run of it, Napoleon thinks. A better run than most can expect.

'You're never going to say it,' Joseph says.

Napoleon murmurs, 'What?'

Joseph does not answer. He pulls away, pats his brother's cheek, and says, 'I hope you sleep well. We will go out searching tomorrow.'

 

Napoleon considers the drapery as he lies awake in bed. A slice of moonlight on the floor. He rolls around until all the sheets are wrapped up about him. He tries sleeping in every conceivable position. He pushes the pillows onto the floor then picks them all back up.

What had Joseph meant? What was he supposed to say? He wants to ask Josephine but can't. Sliding out of bed he pulls on his dressing gown and walks down the hall to where Arthur has been installed.

'Wellesly?' He knocks at the door. 'You up?'

Nothing. He knocks a little louder.

'Are you awake?'

The door cracks opens and a decidedly unhappy Arthur glares at him. 'I am now.'

Napoleon smiles and pats the exposed cheek, 'You need a shave.'

Arthur steps back and Napoleon slides into the room. He looks around, picks up a book and puts it back down. Toes one of Arthur's boots.

'I got the nicer room,' he says triumphant.

'You are the brother of our host I sure hope you did.'

'Joseph said something very odd to me,' Napoleon says as he circles the room then sits himself on the bed. 'I think I know what it is but I would like to hear your take.'

'It's one in the morning.'

'He said "you're never going to say it." What do you think he means by that?'

Arthur makes scooting motions. Napoleon stares at him. Arthur scowls, snaps, 'budge up if you're going to sit on my bed. That's where I was sleeping.'

Napoleon huffs and rolls across to the unoccupied half. He lies down and taps his stomach, waiting for a response. When he looks over there is Arthur with eyes closed. He pokes his shoulder.

'What do you think he meant?'

Arthur, eyes still closed, 'he meant that you should go to sleep.'

'Come now, be serious.'

'I am.' 

Napoleon stares at Arthur. Arthur maintains his closed-eyed form. Napoleon huffs. There is no response. Napoleon shifts, throws an arm over Arthur, says the least he can do is be an obliging pillow, and attempts to sleep.

  

Early morning brings a pale milky sky of twilight before day. Waking with great reluctance Napoleon sits up and untangles the sheets from his legs. Scratching his stomach he looks around and thinks he should probably relocate to the correct room before staff come in to tend to the fires. Opening the door to the hall as he lazily tries to pat his hair down when a noise from the direction of the window catches his attention. It is a soft hiss, barely audible and stops as soon as Napoleon approaches the curtains. When he pulls them back all he can see is something darting fast, in an inhuman fashion, towards the woods. He squints but cannot make out details but there is no doubt to his mind that it was their beast.

 

Back in his room Napoleon mulls over the creature for a short time before turning back to his brother. He thinks, It’s an apology he wants. That’s what it is. But how can I offer an apology when I have nothing to apologize for? It is hardly my fault Joseph creates ideal pictures in his head that I can hardly match up to. It is hardly my fault Joseph carts around crates of memories better left gathering dust. Napoleone was no one. Napoleon was someone.

He falters. His mind follows through to the next logical step: Napoleon was someone. Now, he is no one.

The thought of breakfast palls. Creatures of the woods are a distraction in his retirement. Why is he so quick to run into the woods? He lingers along the edge of  _ why _ but he does not wish to visit such a space just yet. He is not the disciple Thomas; he cannot push his fingers into open wounds in order to search out truth. 

 

 

. . .

.


	2. Chapter 2

Joseph is cheerful at breakfast and Napoleon congenial. Arthur considers Napoleon's nocturnal visit a strange fever dream. He considers most of the man's nocturnal visits strange fever dreams. It is easier to parse them as the imaginings of his evidently disturbed mind than things he allows because he has become fond of the wretched man.

Joseph says, 'we will start directly after breakfast. Better to get in a full day I think.'

'Just the three of us?' Napoleon asks. 'Wouldn't a wider search party be better?'

'Unfortunately it's planting season so most everyone is occupied. We're still making up for the weather a few years ago. Did you get red snow? We got red snow. In July!'

Napoleon brightens, 'oh yes. We got that. I thought it was just a result of some of the strange magic happening on our side of the pond.'

'Volcano,' Arthur says as he butters toast. 'I read a thing on it.'

Napoleon makes a face at him, 'be more precise. What thing when?'

'Hm, Royal Society, a year ago? This time? Or in the autumn? Whenever their annual journal comes out. I was reading it and there was something or other about a volcano in the east.'

Napoleon looks to Joseph, 'volcano, brother.'

'Indeed, brother, volcano. In the east no less.'

Arthur looks up from his toast. Both Bonapartes stare at him. He takes a bite. Chews very slowly and upon swallowing says, 'you're hair is sticking up.' Both reach up to check. Arthur stares at them. Napoleon is the first to break with a grin.

'You're wicked, Arthur Wellesley. Positive rascal.'

'Pot, kettle,' he waves his knife.

Joseph turns in his chair and says with firmness, 'tell me of mother.'

Napoleon, switching from French into Italian, 'mother is well. She remains in Rome with Fesche.' 

'Good, good. She is keeping her spirits up?'

'She is, though I have heard worrying things about the company she keeps. Lucien wrote me about it.'

Joseph raises his eyebrows. Napoleon bats his arm. 'Lucien and I,' he declares, 'are quite made up.' 

'I don't believe it.' Joseph turns to Arthur, still speaking in Italian, 'do you believe it?'

Arthur shrugs.

Joseph takes this as confirmation of bias, 'he doesn't believe it either.'

'He doesn't speak Italian,' Napoleon replies in French. 'He knows. He is on my side.'

'Who?' 

'Wellesley.'

'Something for the history books.'

Napoleon leans over and flicks Joseph's nose. Joseph returns the sentiment and the rest of breakfast is spent with the brothers bickering over who Lucien favours most between the two of them. Arthur is deeply relieved when Napoleon finally stands and says that it is time to look for devils. Joseph spreads his hands, 'by all means, run my table.'

Napoleon, although not in a grudging manner but certainly stilted, says 'my apologies. Force of habit.'

Joseph is mollified for the moment. Dabs his lips with his napkin before standing and leading the way to the gun room.

 

/ /

 

Napoleon is not sure what he expected when they set out into the Pine Barrens but given the name, and the rough translation from Wellesley, he had not expected quite so many trees. He takes up the point of confusion with Joseph who explains that the name comes from the poor soil. It is not sufficient for most plants to thrive and so there are only pine trees. Pines and pines and pines. The monotony of the forest, which is wide and never ending, creates a disjointed effect. 

It is nothing like the Shrubbery in Woodford with its cool, quiet, claustrophobic English atmosphere. No, no this reminds Napoleon of parts of Austria and northern Italy yet not quite. He attempts to think of a comparison but all he calls to mind are either lacking something or have too much of something. But, as he is not botanist, he does not wrestle with the subject for long.

'I think it was loitering around your estate last night,' Napoleon says as they stop for Joseph to tie a piece of ribbon to a tree. 'I heard something hissing very early this morning.'

 

Joseph rejoins them nodding, 'Yes I've heard it around before. I dislike that it can fly. Makes me want to reinforce the windows.'

Napoleon is uncomfortable with that reminder. Indeed, if it can fly then it can reach their first floor rooms. What he had seen had been on the ground but who is to say it had not been up in the air spying. He looks towards Arthur who is scanning the trees with a resolute expression.

 

Joseph explains the history of the Pine Barrens to them as they continue to pick their way through the forest. They had forgone horses as they were tracking and it is best to be on foot for such work. Joseph had also said that many of the accounts he and his friend Nicholas Biddle had accumulated over recent months have most encounters occurring to people on foot. Being without sturdy animals adds a layer of unease to the group.

'There are people who make their living out in these woods,' Joseph says. 'We may run across them or signs of them. They are friendly if wary. They do not trust easily but, in my experience, they will cause no trouble to us. It is lucky we have his grace here to translate. I ran into a group one time on my own and by the grace of God one of their wives was an Acadian woman and had something like French. Down from Nova Scotia. We made piece-meal sense. It worked.'

'How do they survive?' Napoleon wonders. It is sand beneath foot. Whatever grows here must suck uncertain survival from dusty earth.

'There is some industry. Bog iron is mined although that is slowing down. It was apparently quite big thirty, forty years ago. There are mills here and there, paper, saw, grist and the like.' Joseph hums for a moment as he considers the forest around them. 'I think, if someone were to be enterprising, they could have a fair go at a sawmill. You would have to be intelligent about it but I do believe it entirely manageable.'

'Not going into trade are you?' Napoleon teases.

'No, no. It was just a conversation I had with Mr. Biddle recently. We usually talk banks and literature. He picks my brain about France's finances and I am woefully inadequate when it comes to answering his questions.' 

Spying Arthur's quietude and pensive features Napoleon asks him what it is he is so concerned about. This is merely one creature. We've dealt with more. 

'I dislike the quiet,' Arthur says. 'I do not trust a quiet forest.' 

The brothers agree and the three find themselves glancing over their shoulders. The peaceful transforms into the sinister, the familiar gains an edge of the terrifying.  There is a German word for such a thing although Napoleon cannot remember it. And while it is too much to apply it to a forest that is quite foreign to him, it is a word he wishes he had known earlier in his life as he might have been able to explain things with greater ease to Josephine and Louise.

He cannot reconcile that war happened _to_ him as much as it happened to his soldiers. He had always seen himself above it, the creator of it, the master of it. Yet he now knows it was never that simple. The shades of the dead in bedrooms and gardens are difficult to chase away. Certain smells, sounds take him away from himself and all of this has gotten worse the more he is removed from it. He had mentioned it to Bertrand, one of the French exiles in England, who had said, ‘the body understands it is safe to unwind. The way bodies do after stress. It is how you become ill only after big events. It's as if your body knows it is safe to be weak.’

He had not the heart to say to Bertrand that if it is his body attempting to be weak then it too must become alien and horrific to him. It has never done such things before. 

 

/ /

 

It is in the late afternoon that they come upon a bog. Reeds and dead, over salted tree stumps jut up from the mire. Mosquitoes, midges and early black flies make nuisances of themselves. 

'I haven't seen anything yet,' Arthur says waving away the pests. 'Just a damn lot of bugs.'

'July is worse,' Joseph mutters. 'Can barely go out shooting for the things. Anyway, there's not much of a way through here without a boat but I do know an alternative path back so we won't be covering the same ground twice.'

To get to the path they follow the edge of the bog for half a mile and, just as they turn to head back into the trees, Arthur grabs Napoleon's arm.

'There,' he says. He points to tracks in the mud. 'Hoof-prints. Fresh too. They'd be more shallow if the mud had time to fill them in.'

Napoleon looks around them and sees little sign of the creature then scans the trees and heavens above. All equally void. Joseph inspects the prints and confirms that they are identical to the ones he saw the previous winter.

'It clearly stood here for a time,' Joseph says. 'Judging by the depth of them.'

The three again look out to the bog. It is, baring the bugs, a peaceful place. There is a beauty in it and Arthur says that isn't it odd? A creature such as this devil admiring the view?

Returning to the forest they follow a hunting trail back towards the township. The pines thin the closer they get to Bordentown and the air cools. Shoulders relax, grips on muskets become more friendly. Leaving the Pineland they are cheerful. It is only upon glancing back does Napoleon catch sight of something hovering about six feet above the ground. Watching them. Large wings flapping. Then, it is gone. As if it had never been.

He returns his attention to Joseph and Arthur and find neither had noticed the beast. He thinks to say something but Joseph is regaling Arthur with tales of their youth. He reasons that they will return tomorrow and today? Today the land is worth looking at. The sky is something to admire. He looks up to clouds and blue and the gold of an afternoon sun. He wonders when he will learn how to speak to Joseph again. If they will rediscover that lost language they had as brothers.

 

 

 

. . .

.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur lounges in a chair at the desk in his room. He is attempting to compose a letter to the Cabinet Office as both Master of the Ordnance and Minister of the Occult. He dislikes how the titles and roles are entangling themselves together. He feels there ought to be a distinct delineation between them. He, thus far, has been shot down.

‘What are you wearing to dinner?’ Napoleon asks as he sticks his head in. Arthur leans his head back so he is viewing the man upside. 'That is a pretty face you’re making but not an answer to my question.’

'I was attempting to get some work done.’

'Still not an answer. Oh, I see your man has lain out your uniform.’

'Yes. How involved do you think this dinner will be?’

'Food and drink wise? Very involved. If you want to eat well, always dine with Joseph. In terms of guests? Intimate. He said he was having only one or two people along.’

Arthur screws the lid back on his ink and sets his pen back in its holder. This letter is clearly not going to be completed in the time between present and dinner.

'Very well,’ Arthur sighs. 'I will do work after dinner.’

'Think of this as a holiday.’

'I’m here on behalf of the British-’

'Yes, yes. I know.’ Leaning over Napoleon adjusts Arthur’s collar and cravat. 'Get dressed or we’ll be late.’

 

/ /

 

The dinner party is small consisting of Nicholas Biddle and his wife Jane and a Mr. William Bligh and wife Margaret. Arthur had expected there to be the whispered about Annette Savage, unkindly called Madame de la Folie, but she if she is present in Bordentown at this time she is absent from Point Breeze.

'Never seen it myself,’ Nicholas is saying as the fish is brought it. 'Of course I’ve heard all the stories. You can’t help it in these parts. It reminds one of some of the beasts that Homer wrote of - creatures of remote Mediterranean islands.’

Napoleon perks up at the mention on Homer. ‘You enjoy the epics?’ He asks with great enthusiasm.

‘I enjoy all the classics,’ Nicholas pauses as he searches for a title. Finding it difficult with two Bonapartes present, the Duke of Wellington, and an amiable if bland Mr. Bligh, he settles on nothing. ‘I’ve been revisiting Virgil. _The Aeneid_.’

‘An excellent choice.’ With an ironic smile Napoleon quotes, ‘He was to be ruler of Italy, Potential empire, armorer of war; to father men from Teucer’s noble blood. And bring the whole world under law’s dominion.’ A theatric sigh. ‘But, it was not to be for him.’

Nicholas spreads his hands as if saying, Such is life.

Arthur, ‘I beg your pardon, but to return to the beast. The stories you have heard, they only speak of one, correct? Or are there more?’

'I’ve only heard of one,’ Nicholas replies. 'Who knows, though. The natives speak of all sorts of strange creatures in the woods. Perhaps there are more.’

'But this one was born of a human?’

'Correct, though our host knows more of the particulars than I.’

Joseph shrugs, he has said all he knows. There is little knowledge left to impart. Perhaps there are still members of Leeds family around? They are the ones who brought this creature forth not quite one hundred years ago.

Napoleon listens with half an ear as Arthur digs into the legend and mildly wonders what sort of letter the War Office is going to receive. Evidently they are concerned about the numbers of these strange creatures. Napoleon thinks that is a ridiculous approach to it. Folklore creatures do exist in regards to sheer number. _That_ is not their power. It is over the mind that they reign most completely.

Do not go here, do not go there for the Jersey Devil will get you, the giants of Bonafacio will crush up your bones like chestnuts and make _pulenta_ from them, the fairies will lead you astray and down into the dark earth where thirsty roots dig deep. The power of the unknown, the feared other is where the true magic of these things lies.

Jane Biddle is a handsome woman and Napoleon, done with thoughts of the unknown for one evening, turns towards her and makes general inquiries about her life. Who was her father? Her mother? Where was she from? Has she and her husband any children? Only two! She must have more. He asks for their names. Edward and Charles.

'Charles is a good name,’ he says.

'I think so,’ Jane agrees.

'You should name your next son William or perhaps Harold. Those are names of fame and fortune.’

'If it is a son, sir!’

'Of course it will be a son, you have two already. That is a good sign.’

She teases, 'and if it were to be a daughter?’

'Josephine.’

'That is a beautiful name.’

'Of course. Or Pauline, if you absolutely must.’

Nicholas attends to them as he drifts out of a conversation with William Bligh. He catches Napoleon’s eye as the meat course is brought in. ‘Perhaps not as warm a subject as Virgil and Homer but I would like to speak with you on a manner of some import.’

'Nicholas, not work.’ Jane says this with the tone of one who knows a hopeless situation when it presents itself.

'For only a minute, my dear. What think you of our current situation?’

'Broadly speaking? The general human condition? Hopeful, I would say. Or more particularly?’

'As you may know, I am the director of the federal Bank.’

'Ah! that sort of import. The current economic state. What is your opinion?’

'It is trying at best, an absolute horror at worst. We’ll muddle through it though, I have no doubt. I want to ask you about the Louisiana Purchase repayment process. It has, as you know, exacerbated the current economic crisis and I have been consulting about the best approach.’

'New government in France,’ Napoleon holds his hands up. 'I have nothing to do with it. I raise bees and tend my garden in a small village in England now. I am, how do you say in English, a retired gentleman?'

Jane not-so-discreetly nudges Nicholas’ foot beneath the table. He smiles warmly at her and says, 'oh fine, we’ll talk later. Aside from our current crisis I want a more complete account of the creation of the French bank.’

'Naturally.’

'Your brother Joseph is of little help.’

'Come tomorrow,’ Napoleon says. 'We’re going on another quest for this devil. Come with us.’

Nicholas at first defers, he would not wish to infringe if this is a specialized practice. He only prepared Lewis and Clarks’ report of their western exploration past the Mississippi, he is not a man of nature.

'We are all urban gentlemen,’ Napoleon says.

'But you’re also all soldiers.’

'Excuse you,’ Joseph says primly from down the table. 'Do not cast that aspersion on all of us.’

Nicholas laughs, oh he is sorry. He would not wish to cast any shadow on their host. 'He’s a good man,’ he says to Napoleon.

'Oh yes, between the two of us Joseph is the more handsome and the kinder.’

 

/ /

 

Arthur approaches the letter and desk with annoyance once dinner has ended and guests dispersed for the evening with plans to reconvene in the morning. He outlines what he wishes to convey then begins. He decides that he will include an edited copy to interested parties in England such as that botanist Buchanan.

Part way through is the expected knock. Napoleon enters without waiting for an invitation and Arthur twists around to face him, points at him with his pen dripping an errant bit of ink to the floor.

'You should wait until you have been invited, Bonaparte.’

'I knew you’d be scribbling away at your letter. You fairly near abandoned me at the end of the evening.’

'You and your brother were reminiscing about family half in Italian. I was clearly not needed.’

Napoleon leans over him and scans the letter. Arthur remains, despite several years of close acquaintance, unaware of exactly how much English the one-time emperor can read. He partially covers the letter with his hand. Napoleon scoffs, ruffles his hair.

'You just wanted to escape Mr. Bligh. Madame Bligh was charming.’

'Yes, I saw you steal away with her into the corner of the room for a time,’ Arthur mutters.

'I did not steal her away. We were discussing constellations and so we went to a window to look at them which elucidated the conversation.’

'You’re hopeless.’

Napoleon grins and flops back onto the bed. He is still half dressed in evening-wear and smells of cigars from the other gentlemen.

'Bligh wished to speak to me of the great innovations being made in ship building in Boston,’ Arthur says when Napoleon offers no other lead. 'He was being loud.’

'He was rather loud.’

'And brash.’

'His French wasn’t good, I didn’t get that far.’

'And dull.’

'The worst offence!’ Napoleon juts his hand up pointing to the ceiling. 'Off with his head!’

'He was being  _American_.’

Napoleon props himself up on his shoulders and raises an eyebrow. Arthur does not appreciate the scrutiny and turns back to his letter muttering that some people have work that needs to be completed.

'You tolerated the few socialites we met in Boston.’

Arthur glares over his shoulder, 'they weren’t dull. They were charming, educated women with peculiar accents. I am immune to peculiar accents. _You_ have a peculiar accent and I abide it well enough.’

Napoleon flops back down and says that if Arthur is going to be missish he can do it alone. Arthur says he wishes he could be alone. If other people would only let him. Napoleon, 'you don’t mean that.’ The tone is teasing. Without seeing him Arthur knows he is smiling and it is devilish.

Arthur writes on for a time before he hears Napoleon standing and moving about the room. As the door opens Arthur says, 'what your brother wants you to say.’

From across the room Napoleon’s voice is low and soft, 'yes?’

'Have you figured it out?’

'Oh yes.’

'Probably for the best.’

'I disagree.’

Arthur shrugs. He continues writing. The door closes with something like an admission.

 

 

 

 

 

. . .

.


	4. Chapter 4

The hunting party gathers in morning mist. It is the original three plus Mr. Biddle who professes a casual interest in the entire affair.

'Mr. Bligh?' Arthur asks.

'Unwell,' Joseph says. 'He is staying in for the day. I asked Mr. Cadwalader but he is in Boston at the moment. Chasing after some recently arrived sculptures from Italy.'

No one appears much upset the news of an absent Mr. Bligh. Arthur pets one of Joseph's hounds with affection and declares that the day will be a beautiful one despite the fog. It will burn off by midday and all will be lovely. A fine time for a spot of tracking.

Much like their first attempt the initial hours are spent amiably enough but without much sight or sound of the creature. Considering their luck the previous day they head towards the bog with Joseph reasoning that it might the creature's watering hole.

Joseph and Napoleon lead the party with Arthur and Nicholas bringing up the rear. Occasional conversation flitters through. How is the relationship between Caroline and the king going? Terrible as usual.

'Don't eat dinner with your lover when you also want to be queen,' is Napoleon's helpful advice.

Nicholas expresses sympathy for both parties. He quotes Homer, citing their conversation from the night before, 'Of all creatures that breathe and move upon the earth, nothing is bred that is weaker than man.'

'It is not weakness,' Arthur mutters. 'But mere folly. On both their parts.'

'Indeed, your grace, and so I feel for them.'

Napoleon turns so he walking backwards and facing Arthur and Nicholas, 'you were of a similar mind for a time, Wellesley. I remember Mrs. Topsom quizzing you about the Princess Caroline when I first arrived in Woodford.' He almost stumbles, turns back around so as to not fall.

Joseph, over his shoulder, 'never express an opinion in front of my brother, gentlemen. He'll never let you forget it.'

'So I have come to learn,' Arthur replies dryly. 'My views have shifted with new information. As most people's are wont to do. Including yours, sir, though you profess otherwise.' Sotto voce to Nicholas, 'General Bonaparte takes great pleasure in professing opinions that are not his own.'

The conversation dies down with the increasing late-morning temperature and soon the group returns to its quiet contemplation. The Pine Barrens are their usual uncanny quietude save for boots on brush, the occasional bird, movement of fabric of hunting coats.

Arriving at the bog the men scan for tracks but find none. It is an untouched land. No bugs skating on the surface of water, no frogs, no fish. The sheer sense of absence becomes overwhelming.

'Let us head this way,' Joseph says. 'A different direction from yesterday but more secluded and perhaps more favourable to our creature.'

High noon in the Pine Barrens is disconcerting. The trees appear identical and the repetition of scenery is maddening. Have they been going in circles? It is difficult to say.

For a moment Arthur pauses, leans against his musket, and looks behind them. There are signs of their trail, marks to guide them back should they turn around. Biddle stops with him, 'your grace? All is well?'

And as he turns to say, 'oh yes, just looking' he finds they are alone. Napoleon and Joseph are no longer ahead of them.

'Where are they?' Arthur says.

'They were just there a moment ago they cannot be far.'

They speed up their walking hoping to catch up to the others but there is no sign of them. No sign that they had been there at all.

 

/ /

 

Joseph leans against a tree and readjusts the musket on his shoulder. The forest is remarkably warm for the spring and his boots damp from mud. He gives a humourless smile to Napoleon.

'Not quite what any of us had in mind,' he says.

'No. We are sure we retraced our path exactly?'

'Yes, I found all my markings.'

Napoleon sighs, rubs the back of his neck. There is too much humidity for comfort. A mosquito lands on his cheek and he swats it away.

'Well best to head all the way back out. I'm sure they're doing the same,' Napoleon says when Joseph seems ill inclined to make a suggestion. 'Wellesley isn't daft, they'll retrace their steps as well. We'll run into them.'

They march on. Joseph finds it akin to their youthful days in Corsica. Him, speaking warmly of the countryside, the art of the land, the beauty of the sky. Napoleon quoting Cicero and speaking of the past with interest, the present with disinterest. It is like he trades places, Joseph thinks, Ceasar he can be passionate about, current events he can only addresses as if they happened three hundred years ago. Present-tense emotions are too much and so they are mapped on to the past-tense. Hear Nabulio speak of the snakes in Roman courts and you are hearing him speak of snakes in the French court.

'If you could go back and change one thing, what would it be?' Joseph asks.

'Only one? I'd buy more presents for Josephine.'

'I'm being serious.'

Napoleon tweaks his ear. Joseph bats his hand away. He wants a true and real answer but Napoleon is playing coy.

'This is just like you, you know,' Joseph says with resignation. 'Avoiding all the difficult conversations.'

'I am not avoiding a difficult conversation, I am avoiding a ridiculous question. Do not ask me what I would do differently! It serves no useful purpose but to make us maudlin.'

Joseph purses his lips and wishes to disagree but cannot pin-point the exact nature of his disagreement only he knows his brother is wrong, or not quite right, or perhaps they're having two different conversations.

'Do you have regrets?'

'Of course,' snapped. 'But again, what purpose is served by listing them? Do I wish I had done some things differently? Naturally. I do not want to be here no more than you want to be here-'

'I beg you not to place your desires onto mine. We are not the same person.'

'No, we are not. You are unambitious and infinitely easier.'

'No shame in either of those.'

'Did I say there was?'

'It was said with the tone of your voice.'

Napoleon scoffs, 'ever the victim, Joseph.'

'That is untrue. You on the other hand-'

'Me?'

Joseph stops and gives his brother a grave look. 'Nothing is ever your fault, it is always the fault of others. No blame lies on those shoulders that forced their way into Atlas' position whether it was desired or not. I, at least, have the temerity to accept when I have made a mistake.'

Napoleon's expression is fiery. Eyes are Atlantic storm grey and he is sneering. 'I have no wish to continue this conversation. You are not yourself.'

'Fine,' Joseph snaps. 'We can go back to never talking about anything as if that has ever done good for our family.'

Joseph stalks off in one direction, Napoleon the other. Unable to resist Napoleon spins on his heel and says, 'Temerity, brother-mine, is not a word that can be used to describe your actions.  _ Indolence _ on the other hand.'

Joseph turns back to Napoleon and snaps, 'there is audacity in kindness. Something you are incapable of and when you do display it it is not for altruistic reasons. You must have everything your way with no regard for the feelings of others.' Joseph watches as his brother's face changes from anger to a careful neutral. Napoleon licks his lips. Joseph is uncertain about this change. What could it mean? Napoleon's eyes aren't on him, he notices, but slightly above.

A hiss.

Joseph feels his stomach clench, the air leave his lungs in horror. His hands tighten on his musket but he cannot turn around to face the creature. In these fleeting moments of uncertainty Napoleon lunges forward, grabs Joseph, and pushes him behind him as he draws his sword.

'Fuck off,' he shouts.

The beast does not move. Napoleon can see the thin leather of the wings, the short horse-hair covering its body. The red eyes edged in with yellow, the birdlike legs, the hooved feet, clawed hands. It hisses again and oh, the teeth make him queasy.

'Get away,' he says, waving his sword. 'No one wants you here. Go on.'

Joseph fumbles with his musket then holds it up. The creature looks between them. When its gaze meets his own Joseph feels its eyes boring into him. There is sadness behind the monstrosity. Bittersweet loneliness within the horror.

Napoleon whispers, 'go on, shoot it.'

Joseph pulls the lock back till it clicks. The Jersey Devil shifts its steady, weighted gaze from Joseph to Napoleon who continues to point his sword at it. Joseph cannot fathom what his brother is reading in the creature's face. What sense of identity he is gleaning from this monster that was shunned by its family. Cast aside. Abandoned to live out its lonely existence in the most barren of places.

Napoleon takes a few steps back and lowers the sword. He and Joseph stand within inches of each other, the Jersey Devil is several feet from them. It lets out a slithering hiss that travels down their spines, nests in a pit of fear at the base of their stomachs.

How can something so fearsome be so pitiable?

It takes incomprehensible flight. 

 

/ /

 

Arthur is standing up to his ankles in mud swatting at flies. The bog has come upon them suddenly and Biddle has been regaling him with his latest adventures into the realms of natural philosophy and travel literature.

'It began after I read Cook's journals,' Nicholas says cheerfully. He waves at the mosquitoes around him. 'Then I wrote the report up for the westward expedition of Mr. Lewis and Mr. Clark and that was phenomenal. I would love to see half of what they saw.'

Arthur thinks it ironic to state something like that as they trudge to the edge of the bog and are desperately trying to keep their muskets out of the water as they flight mosquitoes and blackflies. He will willingly put up with such nuisances when on campaign. Being out in nature is good for the constitution and builds character. But to wish to live the life of a fetid fur trapper, which is surely the state the Misters Lewis and Clark lived in for much of their time, is inconceivable. Very much the view of an armchair adventurer. He refrains from making commentary.

'Though,' Nicholas sighs with relief once they find footholds that are not four inches deep in mud and extract their feet onto firm ground. 'I will confess I could go for a steak pie and an ale right about now.'

'I share your enthusiasm for pie and ale,' Arthur agrees. 'If only we could find our companions.'

'We did follow Joseph's markings, didn't we?'

 

'Yes, carefully too and Bonaparte, Napoleon, isn't daft. He'd have them turning around and coming back for us. We all would have run into each other though I swear this bog moved since the last time we were here.'

Biddle laughs at this suggestion. Arthur stares. Biddle pauses. 'Oh, you're serious.'

'Things in the world are changing and not for the better, in my book.'

'Change can be good.'

'In small increments over a very long period of time. In general, I disagree with change for the sake of change. If things are not broken we ought not try and fix them.'

'Well, each man delights in the position that suits best his current life. But let us continue to try and find our friends.'

Trust an American to make such an argument, Arthur thinks. Also, trust an American to spend three hours discussing the merits of classical writers on the foundation of new governance. Americans and Frenchmen. Bonaparte, Arthur sighs in defeat, is similar. But it is different coming from him. There is always this sense of irony whereas Mr. Biddle is _earnest._

'How do you find the former emperor?' Nicholas asks as they continue along the marked path. 'I saw his coronation. It was spectacular.'

'I'm sure it was a spectacle. He is a bit of a showman the way all politicians are.' Arthur falters for a moment realizing that he, himself, is now a politician and not just a military man. But he considers his line as Master of the Ordnance (and detested Minister of Occult Affairs) different. It is still primarily military. He is able to speak bluntly and be forgiven. 'He is all right.'

'I was surprised to see you both getting along.'

'Circumstances outside my control made it thus. We were forced to work together on a dealing in a similarly occult nature as this, including a shifting forest, and came to better understand each other.'

'I hear he is a good friend. How does it go, the difficulty is not so great to die for a friend as to find a friend worth dying for.'

'I wouldn't go that far regarding Bonaparte,' Arthur replies with some feeling. He dislikes when people dig into their friendship, relationship, whatever word there is there for it. This forced-by-circumstances-but-not-unpleasant thing and it is with these thoughts that they naturally run into the Bonaparte brothers. Both are all hugs and beyond pleased to have found their missing compatriots.

'You are all right?' Napoleon asks squeezing Arthur's shoulder. 'You didn't run into anything?' A glance down. 'Other than the bog, that is.' 

Oh yes, Mr. Biddle and I had a fine time with this run around. I had half of the Odyssey quoted at me.'

'I am glad you are friends.'

'And you?'

Napoleon glances at Joseph who shrugs. He says, 'we had a bit of an adventure.'

Arthur says that he is not surprised. Things usually go a little pear-shaped when Napoleon is involved. Napoleon, taking up Arthur's arm, says that Joseph can tell it all. It is more his story, after all. Joseph's expression is first cautious then warm and the story unwinds as they make their way from the forest.

Standing between field and pine trees, that marginal unclaimed space between two worlds, Arthur asks, 'so why didn't you shoot it? That was the entire point.'

Joseph thinks for a moment. There is a gentle breeze, an evening sun, clouds like a painting in the sky. 'I felt bad for it. I felt like it has already lost much and who are we to take away its life? I normally wouldn't feel thusly but there was something so distinctly knowable in its eyes. When you look at it, it feels like a part of yourself is staring back. A part of yourself that has been thrown away and I did not wish to destroy it completely.'

 

 

. . .

.


	5. Chapter 5

What an end to a day. Arthur is frustrated. Feeling bad for a monster! Indeed. How typically French. How typically Bonaparte. How typical it is for one from that family to go and throw the entire plan off. This is how society falls, he thinks, when we start feeling poorly for monsters like the Jersey Devil. As if it inhabits any humanity within it to warrant pity or kindness.

What a miserable end to his letter to Liverpool. Well, perhaps not miserable. Bonaparte, that is Napoleon, assured him that the creature posed no military threat or otherwise to England or her colonies. What would happen were it to go to Upper and Lower Canada? Nothing, Bonaparte had said. Eat some cattle? Scare a few farmers?

He will admit he was not sure what he had expected from the entire expedition which hadn’t been his idea to begin with. There was no great confrontation, not final slaying of a monster to prove that what they had experienced was real. Nothing to show for it at all. 

He concludes his letter to Liverpool and adds it to the stack that is to be sent on ahead of them before they embark on their journey homeward.

‘No dinners with a president,’ Napoleon says, letting himself in. 'Are you offended or relieved?’

'Relieved, I assure you. And I had dinner with the director of the Federal Bank and the former, if temporary, King of Spain. I think I can forego dinner with Monroe for that.’

'And you dine regularly with the former Emperor of France, how your other dinner guests must pale in comparison.’

'That is a title we do not recognize,’ Arthur replies in a stiff manner.

'But Joseph is King of Spain! That is unkind. Not to mention a work of great mental elasticity. Who made him king of Spain I wonder.’ 

They end up topsy-turvy on the bed with Napoleon’s stockinged feet on the pillows and head by the foot of the bed with Arthur the opposite. It is a quiet evening, no formal dinner. At some point soon they will go downstairs and be social.  Both are still in their hunting clothes, buckskin breeches and wool coats deposited on chair backs.

'I still cannot believe neither of you shot it,’ Arthur says. He can feel circles being traced along his hip.

'It was no wolf, bear or boar. There would have been no honour in it. You would agree with me had you seen it.’

Arthur props himself up and looks down to Napoleon who has his eyes closed. One arm is beneath his head as a pillow, the other against Arthur’s leg drawing those absent shapes.

'It’s the Jersey Devil,’ Arthur says.

'It was sad.’

'Sad? You don’t look at a deer and think, oh it’s sad so I shan’t shoot it today.’

'No, no.’ Napoleon’s face screws up in thought then regains composure. He unwinds his hand that was a pillow and rubs his eyes. 'It’s different. I felt pity for it. Not the pity you feel for a wounded horse or hound, where it is a mercy to shoot them. But the pity you feel for a man who dies alone with no-one to hold his hand. Or the pity you feel when someone is dead and there are none to mourn for them. The pity associated with extreme isolation.’

'That is all very well but it is hardly human.’

Napoleon sits up and holds out his hand, balancing it side to side, 'yes and no. When I met its gaze I felt there was something humane about it. It’s eyes, though red and yellow, were still human eyes.’

'You mean they expressed human emotion.’

'No, I mean they literally were the eyes of mankind, the eyes of Adam.’ He rubs his face again. 'It’s hard to explain. I hold no grievance with Joseph for not shooting it. I didn’t run it through, either. We just looked at each other for a time then it went on its way. The only of its kind Joseph thinks. How sad. Alone, exiled from its family all those years ago.’

'There is no similarity there. Your family still cares. Well, some of your family cares.’

Napoleon laughs. Says that Arthur really knows how to make a man feel loved. Excellent ability to improve a person’s mood. ‘God,’ he sighs as he lies back down, ‘what would I do without you to remind me that some of my family cares?’

'I wager you would get on well enough.’

'I’d be a puddle of despair.’

Arthur rolls his eyes, mutters that Napoleon is not being serious anymore. Always skirting away from difficult truths. At that Napoleon sits back up and with a grave expression says, 'I’m sorry.’

'For what? I was just grumping. It’s my way.’

'Now who isn’t being serious?’

'Fine, fine I accept your strange and unnecessary apology.’

Napoleon smiles and pats Arthur’s cheek. 'I am glad.’ He adds that he ought to go and bathe and change if he is to be in anything resembling a presentable state for dinner. Arthur watches him leave before thinking that he ought to have said something more about family and those who care only, he didn’t have the words. 

 

/ /

 

It is later, after food and drinks and several rounds of cards and Arthur has retired for the evening that Napoleon finds Joseph in his library with a thick blanket on his lap reading Defoe. Joseph looks at him from overtop his glasses.

'You appear comfortable,’ Napoleon says lingering at the edge of the room outside the light of the fire and the lamps and candles. Joseph motions him to the chair near him.

'I hate this book but I’m too committed to stop now. Besides, I promised Biddle that I would give him my assessment and I would like it to be more thorough than 'absolute rubbish, feed it to the pigs with turnip tops’.’

'What a country gentlemen you’ve become.’

Joseph says that the same could be said for Napoleon. He heard of the garden from Wellesley who was really just complaining about the bees. Bees, how fitting. He has thought about bees as well.

Napoleon, 'what I said today. I didn’t mean it.’

'Yes you did.’

'No,’ he sighs. 'No, I didn’t. I was angry more at myself than you. I’m never angry at you.’

'What a lie.’ But Joseph laughs a bit as he says it.

'I am trying to apologize brother. Very well, I have been angry you in the past. I am capable of being angry and frustrated and all manner of other things with you but I still love you and I am sorry for the unkind words I said today. I do not truly believe them of you.’

Joseph takes his glasses off and looks at Napoleon with great patience. Napoleon continues, 'and I am also sorry for making you King of Spain instead of letting you remain King of Naples like you preferred and I am sorry for leaving Elba thus setting in line a chain of events that lead to this current situation and I am also sorry for making you do my homework on Corsica when we were seven and never managing to keep my stockings up then blaming you for my state of undress to maman.’ A tentative look. 'Shall I continue?’

'Perhaps you should just write me a letter. No, no, Nabulio it is all right. I thank you for your apology. I always know that you generally do not mean what you say in the heat of the moment. What was it Duroc said about you?’

'Oh no not the Duroc quote.’

Joseph, in an approximation of Duroc’s manner of speaking, “The emperor speaks from his feelings, not according to his judgement; nor as he will act tomorrow.”

‘I miss him a good deal.’

'I know.’

'We are leaving for England tomorrow.’

'I know.’ 

Joseph searches his brother’s face and finds sadness but it is a well-restrained emotion. At first he is annoyed because even now, even after it all, he must be in control of himself but then he remembers being ten years old and going to France and how he wept and wept and made his brother’s shoulder damp and Napoleon, who was Napoleone then, just cried a few tears while swallowing a few times and being unable to speak.  The empire just made him worse.

When do walls develop? Is it when you are taken from your family who you will not see for another fifteen years and thrust into a country whose language you do not speak, whose customs you do not understand, and told to make friends with boys you cannot interpret? Is it when you witness war for the first time? Mobs running wild? Your friend taking a piece of shrapnel and dying atop of you as they cough blood onto your face? When do you bury yourself in irony and smiles and wry social observations?

Joseph wonders how much he has changed as well, in all those years. He looks back to Corsica and it feels as if it was ten minutes ago. Then, at the same time, it feels one hundred years ago.

Napoleon is staring at the fire and breathing very carefully. He is tapping out a rhythm on the armrest. He swallows and looks at the ceiling. 

'I should go to bed, it is late.’

Joseph, 'no, no. Stay. We may not see each other for some time after this.’

Napoleon does not look at him. Joseph wants to say, You know I’ve seen you naked and squalling, right? You know I’ve seen you screaming in our father’s lap because you scraped your knee, ruined your breeches and everything was terrible?

But that would serve no purpose. Joseph instead goes to a shelf and retrieves a selection of books. 'Do you remember when father read Cicero to us for the first time?’

'Vaguely. I remember sitting on the floor of his study and listening to him read. It was our tradition whenever he was home. He would let you sit in his nice chair because you were always in a better state of dress than I.’

'You spent your days chasing around with the shepherd boys in the hills. You were filthy.’

'I was six. All six year olds are filthy.’

Joseph sits back down with the books and sets them on the floor between them. He says they should read from one, that he has chosen all those he remembers them going through when young. There is even Ossian, Napoleon’s favourite though Joseph never quite understood why. And beneath that Virgil and Ovid and Caesar and Roland and countless others. Napoleon picks up Ossian and thumbs through a few pages.

'I was once accused of having Ossian dreams,’ he says as he reads a section.

'There are worse dreams to have.’

'What do you want to read?’

Joseph picks up dusty Virgil and hands it over. Anything of his, for now. And really, it doesn’t matter, they have all night.

Later, several books later, Napoleon bids good evening. It is half two in the morning and Joseph says, 'I’m glad you came. Even if we didn’t succeed in anything remotely close to what we set out to do.’

'Next, you must come to England.’

Joseph grasps his brother’s hand and says that it is a plan then pulls Napoleon into a hug. He tells himself to not cry so much as he did when they were boys. The sense of separation is not as large as it was then. There has been a decreasing in the miles in the gulf that Joseph had imagined between them. 

Pulling back Napoleon’s hand stays on Joseph’s neck and he looks his brother full in the face. It is like he is memorizing him, or seeing him afresh for the first time years. Joseph grins.

'Don’t get into too much trouble, Nabulio.’

'Don’t worry, Giuseppe, I have made enough noise for one lifetime. Come to England. I think there are trolls.’

'For the trolls. Maybe we’ll find some humanity in them, too.’

'Sure, but don’t tell Wellesley, he’ll have an apoplexy.’

Sometimes, Joseph thinks, it is like that poem wherein we go into the forest and carve the words of our love into trees and as the trees grow so do our loves become louder. There will be some forgotten people whose trees do not grow and their voices petrify, freeze in time. He thinks that he and his brother are lucky, overall. Their casting asunder not cruelly done. Their landing gentle. They are still accepted into the hearts and homes of good and gentle people. There is no need for them to hide in wilderness and reach out with shaky, clawed hands for something like acknowledgement. 

 

 

. . . 

.


End file.
